


The Knight and the Fool

by andthekitchensink



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site!, M/M, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 19:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: A knight goes to a tournament, meets a fool, falls in love, and finds there are things one simply cannot do for love.





	The Knight and the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a drabble prompt that simply went, "High Fantasy AU where Hank is a knight!" :) Here's to you, @AdmiralLiss!
> 
> Dramatis Personae; or, A Cast of Characters (and a bit of a guide to some of the linguistics and words used, and their meaning)
> 
> Henric (Hank) - a knight by bloodline rather than a mercenary, Henric has served his King faithfully over the years. His last command, to set off on what came known as the Nightshade Crusades, has left Henric with a troubled mind. He comes home from what he feels is a useless war only to learn his wife and son have perished in the plague. (I thought about using his canon name, as it has a neat historical twang to it (Middle English: from Old Norse hǫnk ; compare with Swedish hank ‘string’ and Danish hank ‘handle’.) but it just didn’t look right. Hence, I went for Henric, “From the French Henri, from the German Heinrich, which is from the Old High German Haganrih (ruler of an enclosure), a compound name composed from the elements hag (an enclosure, a hedging-in) and rihhi (ruler), and from the Old High German Heimerich (home ruler), a compound name composed from the elements heim (home) and rik (ruler, king). The name, introduced by the Normans and borne by eight English kings, took the English vernacular form of Harry until the 17th century, when Henry became popular and Harry was used as the pet form.”
> 
> Cole (Cole) - Henric’s son. A note on his name, and its origin/etymology. While its primary meaning is “cabbage”, it has an older history, as per the OED, namely “trickery/deceit”: an obsolete 16c. word "of unknown etymology, and even of uncertain existence" [OED], inferred from words in several texts dating to c. 1300. These include notably cole-pixy "mischievous fairy" (1540s), a southwestern England dialect word (later colt-pixie) and cole-prophet "pretended mystical fortune-teller." I thought it was amusing enough to allude to, in Cole’s ‘spending too much time with the pixies’ and his tricksy ways ‘earning him his given name’.
> 
> Sumo (Sumo) - a dog, but also a horse. Henric’s most trusted friends-in-arms. Japanese wrestling, 相撲 sumō, literally "striking one another". Perfect for a war horse and hound, huh? :D
> 
> Gawain (Gavin Reed) - the King’s brother, watching from the sidelines (perhaps plotting something! Who knows!) I picked the name simply because it’s an older variation of Gavin. And it’s pretty!
> 
> “Of uncertain etymology, some believe Gavin to be from Gwalchmai, a Gaelic name derived from the elements gwalch (a hawk) and maedd (a blow, battle). In Arthurian legend, Gavin is a byname for Sir Gawain, a knight of the Round Table and nephew of King Arthur.”
> 
> Tom the Fool/Conor (Connor, RK800 #51-59) - You may have heard of tomfoolery, as in “foolish or silly behavior; tomfoolishness. A silly act, matter, or thing.” In the 1600s there was a jester called Tom Fool at Moncuster Castle, who is said to have coined the phrase tomfoolery. He’s also believed to be Shakespeare’s inspiration for Tom O’Bedlam from King Lear. Foolery meaning “to act the fool”. Which is very much what Conor does, when meeting Henric. It’s quite possibly a game he’s played before, but he doesn’t expect to be so taken with the knight.
> 
> As for the Tom bit. If you go way back, the name Tom wasn’t just a shorter version of Thomas, but was often used to denote ‘maleness’, as in ‘tomcat’ or ‘tomboy’. Conor says he is ‘tom’ on any day that ends in ‘day’, and a fool all the other days. Of course, there are many languages where weekday names don’t end in ‘day’, so whatever does he mean by that. ;)
> 
> Conor is simply a more modern version of the gaelic Conchobhar/Conchubhar, meaning “a lover of wolves” and/or “a lover of hounds”.
> 
> Conchubhar (RK900) - Conor’s twin brother, born shortly after him.
> 
> The Mad King/His Impervious Majesty (Elijah Kamski) - the elven king that rules the land.
> 
> Amanda (Amanda) - counsel to the King, she is a powerful seer, and conjurer of both blessings and calamity.
> 
> Marcus (Markus, RK200) - firstborn son of the King. (Maybe I’ll write something with Markus at the center, set in this universe. Hmmm.)
> 
> Chlöe (Chloe, RK600) - one of the three princesses.
> 
> Milites nobiles - knights by bloodright/birth, or “true knights” as opposed to milites gregarii, non-noble cavalrymen.
> 
> Tourney - the medieval games we normally associate with jousting. Jousting itself was one of many games, called hastiludes, played during the competition.
> 
> I hope this helps make sense of all the strange names of people and things. :D
> 
> Also, wow, what an insight into how my brain just takes right off if an idea sparks. FOUR DAYS LATER, DUN DUN DUNNN. :DDDD 5,7k words of “drabble”. Oops!

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a man by the name of Henric, who was a man-at-arms during the Nightshade Crusades, and one of the esteemed  _ milites nobiles _ by birth; more commonly known as a knight, Henric came back from the Holy Lands a man changed.

As were true of so many returning from those sacred lands, supposedly filled with demons whose death-by-one’s-hands would buy one passage to Heaven, coming home was not an easy feat. What he came home to was not the comfort of the hearth, but to an empty life, and a decimated household. Henric longed for the comforts of his homestead, but in the long years of his absence, both wife and son had passed away, victims of the Grand Mort.

His homestead was more a farm than a castle (as it ought to be, far as he were concerned) - but as happy a return it was for his cook and housekeeper, for his gardener, his gamekeeper, the knight himself felt only remorse: for the life he had led, and the life he could have had, and not least of all for the lives taken. He had found no demons over yonder Sea, only plagued dark elves, who fought bravely to protect their home; only disillusionment in his own King, and his maddened rule. Some said His Majesty’s House was cursed, but then of course, the Royal Court of the Elven King was mercurial enough to spark such rumours.

Henric had never had an ear for gossip, nor had he had a tongue for it. He was quiet in that respect, but vocal in others. He’d never bite his tongue on what he believed to be Right and Juste - but ever since the Crusades, he felt unsure of what that meant. Right. Good. Juste… It all seemed a matter of perspective, which displeased him greatly. As such, he came back, of a different disposition. He’d taken to the road a man of faith, and come back with nothing but worry and doubt. The Old Book he knew said nothing of thieving, pillaging and looting other than what a sin it were; no matter how many ‘infidels’ he had slaughtered, he very much doubted he’d earned himself anything but free passage to Hell.

His son, Cole, was a mere reed of a boy, nine years grown when he left; his wife like an army in her own right, and bright, and clever, and full of wit. Now, here he was, a veritable lifetime gone, and he had nothing to show for his loyalty and faith but the loss of an eye and blood on his hands, and twin graves on the hill behind the farm.

Years came and gone, during which Henric worked his land and saw to his farm alongside what few servants were still with him. He led a modest life, and all the while he wondered if ever there would come a day he could atone for his sins, God willing, see his family again in the afterlife.

And then one day, the Winter King summoned all knights titled and common alike, to rid the land of a new plague: boredom. In a fortnight’s time, there was to be a tourney, and not just any tourney. He was to find suitable matches for his daughters. It seemed His Majesty had grown weary of finding suitors of noble birth, and instead wished to amuse himself - and in being King, he was an omnipotent ruler. The people bowed to his will as ever before, and this extended to his daughters, whose existence had always been tethered to the Court.

Whoever emerged victorious from the tourney would be given the hand of any of his daughters, who were most handsome, all three of them cast from the same mold and born in the Summertime, blessed with golden hair and eyes as blue as the Sea.

Whatever their trespasses, the King had set his mind to their imminent betrothal to whomever prove their mettle in combat. Perhaps they were reluctant, or perhaps he was of a mind that they were born out of turn - but more likely than not, the King wished to exert his control, and amuse himself in so doing.

Henric considered the prospect of marriage a lost cause, but the prize money for those who entered the games was a substantial draw. It had been a hard year on the farm, with crops failing due to too much sun or too much rain and never enough of either. They could use the money much better than he could use a courtier for a wife; and an elf, besides. Beautiful creatures though they were, and though he knew he were not lacking in merit, he would not impose himself on any of them. A princess, carted off to a farm in the farthest northern end of nowhere, to settle with an old man completely uninterested in taking a new wife? He wouldn’t do that to anyone.

Nevertheless, the next day Hank set off for the palace on his horse, accompanied by his hound, as did knights from all over the continent. All manner of knights and combatants descended upon the court, their renown as varied as they themselves. Women stood shoulder to shoulder with men, men stood neck and neck with elves and orcs and dwarves alike, and amongst them there was none that looked quite like the other. Dark and fair, black haired or red; bearing freckles or scars or ink; beards or no beards; slender or bulky as to their build.

Greeting them was none other than the King’s brother, Gawain, for whom the throne had always held a particular appeal. He held nothing but disdain for the heirs apparent, and hid his contempt only as well as one ought, being  _ familiaris regis _ . But this? Playing Herald and nursemaid to the knights combatant, that he could happily do.

On Tiwesday next, on the day of the games, they were to be given an audience before the King, Gawain informed them, and they were to be silent unless spoken to, and to address the King as His Impervious Majesty. They would not look at him directly, or there would be consequences. But first, over the course of eight days, they would prepare themselves as deemed fit, and they would feast, barring Friday and Sunday, and come Tiwesday, the tourney was to be held, and the King would name a Champion. His Word was Law, said Gawain, and would be contested on pain of death.

***

Most of those assembled went to the grounds, to prepare for the first of many competitions, to begin on the morrow - Elves to their camp, goblins to their, dwarves to yet another one, and so on: for each race, a camp of their own, and sponsors of their own, and (undoubtedly) feasting of their own. Segregation at its finest...

Henric lingered in the courtyard itself, having sat himself upon the large stone steps to watch the sun settle over the rolling hills over yonder. He helped himself to his packed food: cracking the shell of a hardboiled egg against the stone, carving chunks of aged cheese taken from his own cellar. Life was hard work, and though times were rough this past year, he considered himself not a poor man in any respect, bar the most important one. Though he was surrounded by people he considered family, and though he was not in want of a wife, he was lonely. He’d been lonelier for each passing day since setting off for the blasted Crusades. He contented himself with the company of his hound, Sumo, and handed him a chunk of salted meat from his pack.

“There’s my good boy. You must eat, and grow up big and strong.”

As the light of day dwindled, replaced by the warm, ruddy light of lanternes and wall mounted torches, Henric went at last to the camps set up on the grounds, where he would while away the coming week. Halfway across the courtyard, paying only half a mind to his step, the very Fates interceded themselves into his path. A youth neatly avoided him, in such a rush to whence he was going that they both twirled about their step.

“I beg pardon, my lord,” Henric offered, of a mind to err on the side of caution, whether he bumped into Elf or Man or Orc. The youth looked up at him, but only by a trivial margin, as they were nearly eye to eye with each other. He was of a fair complexion, but his cheeks were dotted with tiny marks that reminded Henric of star constellations. His eyes were brown, and warm in the lights from the fires around them. His hood did nothing to hide their spark.

“Oh? But you’ve done nothing to offend, Sire. I hope in that, we are equals.”

Warm of gaze he was, and filled with carefully tempered mischief. Henric felt a matching spark somewhere deep within, be it from that look in the lord’s eyes, or the jaunty twitching of a grin over sharp white teeth. He seemed to Henric like a changeling, or a spritely woodland creature.

“I should be hard pressed indeed to find thee offensive, my lord, in any other respect than being a stranger. Therefore, if I may, my name is Henric.”

The youth’s grin only grew, and replied: “I ought give my name as  _ Conchobhar _ , for my father’s good will and strange humours,” the youth said, a curious lilt to his voice that seemed neither happy nor sad, though it wasn’t melancholy. “But I would have you call me Tom, for that is what I am most likely to be if the day ends with Day, and a fool besides... Alas, whether I am a fool besides, is beside the point. Henric. I am pleased to declare we’re both equally unoffensive. There we are.”

They shared grins, one more perplexed than the other: Henric chuckled, for what else could one do in the company of such a sprite. “There we are indeed. ‘Twas good to meet you, Tom Fool. May we meet again before the tourney’s end.”

“You’ve come to joust, I take it?”

He nodded. “Show me a game I’ve yet to master, and I’ll yield before thee.”

“A challenge! Fair warning: I’ve yet not to rise to a good challenge, and I shall hold you to that, Sir Henric. For now I bid you a good night, for a good Knight.”

Another grin tugged at Henric’s lips, even as the man he now knew as Tom went on his way. “At least you didn’t remark upon mine eye.”

“Oh,” Tom shot back over his shoulder. “I remarked upon the lack thereof, but made no mention, as I daresay you’re not in want of an eye, and thus, I cannot find you lacking.”

***

Over the course of the next few days, Henric prepared like the other knights, with practice  _ mêlée  _ and discussions of strategy for the coming charge, the  _ estor _ , and before that, the review, where all knights paraded shouting their war cries before those assembled; and before that, the vespers, where knights were given opportunity to showcase their skill, adapted as it was to their own particulars: but first, practice, and as surely as Henric had surmised at the beginning of the week, the feasts were a very model of segregation. Humans to their camp, dwarves to theirs, elves to their own - some of which were even invited to partake of the King’s hospitality. Blue bloodlines running thicker than others, and whatnot.

For the most part, Henric kept to the company of his horse and his dog, preferring to drink away from others. Here and there Tom would appear as if out of nowhere, and they would talk about all the mysteries of the world. Tom had a bewitching smile, and shy laughter that seemed to overthrow Henric’s ideas of him as a coyly flamboyant peacock of a man. At times, the young man would get a darkened look about his brow, but it was fleeting. The way he quickly spun another tale or theory told Henric there was more to him than met the eye.

In a matter of days he called him friend. In just a day or two more he felt they knew each other from birth. Tom berated him for his drinking alone, and Henric let him; Tom played silly games with his hound as transformed him into a puppy, and Henric laughed like he hadn’t laughed in years; they talked of the stars and the moon and the suns, of the earth and the Seas, but never of the depth of emotion betwix them.

Monday’s eve, they kissed, and kissed again, when a touch of melancholy lingered over Tom’s face.

“Am I so unpracticed as to disappoint?” Henric asked through a smile brimming with fondness, his thumb brushing over the faint cleft in Tom’s chin.

Tom sighed, his own fingers tracing the outline of Henric’s vicious looking scar. “I think you unable of disappointing me. I know we cannot stay this way forever, and we shall part ways at the end of the tourney. But...know that I shall never forget you, but let you linger in my heart.”

“You could come with me to the Northern territories. Stay awhile at my farm, be a guest in my house for as long as you will.”

“I would work the field as hard as an oxe,” Tom said, but the smile on his lips failed to reach his eyes.

It was a fair fantasy. They kissed again, and Tom let his hands fall to his sides, and bid Henric a good night’s rest before the morrow.

It was only natural then, that Henric spent all of the night awake, wondering how to break the sorrowful spell cast on his companion.

***

Come Tiwesday, Henric’s chosen game for the vespers was a modified version of the  _ quintaine _ , where he not only show off his prowess as marksman on a mannikin, but a moving target. So sure was he, that he make use of his own horse, atop which was mounted a target in the shape of a man. The first throw of the knife was from one end of the jousting area, and it hit home, the lethal dagger embedded in the mannikin. Sumo barely batted an eyelash, and aye, that be the name of his horse - as loyal to his master as any dog, ‘twas, and just as fierce in combat.

The second throw took an arm clear off the mannikin, and the crowd cheered. Proud of his skills, Henric spied the crowds, hoping to see a familiar face - but no Tom was to be seen amongst them. No Fool, either. He would gladly have taken either, just to gauge their mood, but they were nowhere to be seen.

The third knife buried itself in the head of the target, and his name was taken down into the Herald’s books. He was pleased; and ever more pleased when later in the day, when he sat in his allotted corner of the field with a bucket of water to rinse the sweat from his neck, a pair of ornate slippers came into view beside his footstool. Henric felt his lips tug into a smile before he could help it. Beside him, Sumo gave a whuffle of a greeting, and his tail began to waggle, before he got to his feet and demanded hands-on appreciation. Tom obligingly scratched his big head.

Henric trusted his dog’s judgment of others more than he did his own. It was good to see they had a like view of the young man.

“Well done, Sir Henric!” Said Tom, fully in his role as self-proclaimed Fool of the castle. “For a moment there, I feared your loyal steed was to be served up on a skewer after the charge.”

Henric glanced up, and reached to shake the water from his hair with his good hand. Tom seemed his usual self, though looks could be deceptive. “No one makes a meal out of Sumo. He’s my precious boy. I’ve had him since he was a colt: he’s followed me into battlegrounds and back again several times over.”

Tom folded his legs and sat on the bare ground, unashamed of himself - and why should he be? Whether he was actually a resident Fool of the court, he could come and go about the grounds as he please. It wasn’t Henric’s place to question his camaraderie, nor the appearance thereof: this was daytime, and the suns were out in all their twinned glory. This was not the place for shared confidences and open displays of affection: whatever their standing, they were both of a private disposition. Naturally, they would take comfort in more grounded things, like the names of horses.

“I thought you said that’s your dog’s name. ‘Sumo’. I’ve never heard of a horse by that name.”

Henric shrugged, and dunked his rag once again into the bucket of water, silently pleased to see the young man’s eyes following its course from bucket to chest. It was a small boon, but a welcome one. “It was my son who named him - he and my dog, the same name. I don’t know where he got it, but he always were a mischievous, mysterious boy. My late wife, rest her soul, used to say he spent too much time with the pixies, and had thus earned his given name.

“Sumo, however… Whatever‘t means, it suited him,” he nodded his chin at the big hound, whose tail wagged more enthusiastically for being acknowledged by his human. “--and it suited the horse. They’re my constant friends-in-arms, whatever their name.”

There was a peculiar look in Tom’s eyes as they looked at each other, each one measuring the other’s worth by a different set of calipers. Perhaps soon the true source of Tom’s melancholy from the night before would be revealed. “You’ve seen much of the world, then, have you, Sir Henric?”

He nodded, once, then twice. “More than I care to recount. I would be a happier man for having stayed at home, but the Fates, and our King, had other plans for me. My travels lost me an eye, and a family, let alone my spirit.”

There was another pause from the youth, which was as weighty as its predecessors. To think silence could descend upon one’s skin like a heavy cloak that doesn’t fit.

“Why are you here, then? To win yourself a princess bride?”

And there it was. It was a proper question, but not an easy one to answer, especially given their clandestine meetings. “My household needs bread, and before the coming winter we need to stock up with anything we can. My crops failed. I have scarcely anything to trade but my own two hands… Hence, here I am. I came here with a mind to win gold, or prizes to sell at the nearest market, not a wife.”

A frown line found its way between Tom’s delicate eyebrows. His eyes were keen, his very countenance piqued with interest. “But what if you’re named Champion? You’ll have to choose one of His Impervious Majesty’s daughters for a bride. You don’t strike me as one who would forfeit a game if you could win.”

“Perhaps the Fates will smile upon me,” Henric said with a soft murmur, attempting to forestall any flares of jealousy - if that’s what it was. Tom still had that strange look to him.

“Mayhaps the King shall look upon me and say I am too old for any one of his daughters. Too old, too fat around the middle, and one-eyed, to boot!”

Tom smiled, then, and as if by magic his eyes softened around the edges. “You give yourself too little credit. We are measuring merit, here, not age, nor bodily constitution - all three of which I am happy to say are richly bestowed upon you.”

For the hundredth time in a matter of days, Henric felt a spark deep within. His soul felt alight with it. This calamity could surely be averted; they could find a way to free Tom of his yoke, whatever its shape or substance. “Praytell, be this my lord Tom the Fool telling me I am neither too old nor too  _ substantial  _ to partake in the games?”

“Only as substantial as wins you merit. ...And the admiration of a fool, who cannot speak his admiration out loud, lest he be shamed until the end of his days.”

Tom averted his eyes, pressed his hands to his knees and stood to his feet. The magic was gone as quick as it had appeared. “I bid you a good day and fortune as suits you, as I see now more than ever that you are a good man first and a good knight second.”

Henric looked on as the youth made to leave, and stood up, wondering exactly what had taken place between them. His heart beat fiercely in his chest, his mind awash with wonder. Wonder, and doubt.

“And what of yourself, my lord? What are you, really? Not a Fool, except by your own measure-- Your eyes tell me differently. What binds you to this place?”

Tom Fool halted his step and looked over his shoulder, face half obscured by his cloak. “I  _ am _ a fool, Sire. I could see more of myself in your eyes as you looked on me, than I have felt in my whole life - yet I cannot speak… I would persist with this lie, but I cannot; I would speak my true name, but I cannot, lest I...wound you. My own shame pales in comparison.”

“That’s it? Is this our accord - that you enter my life and leave with haste, leaving me with cryptic food for thought and aught else?”  _ Aught else but desire _ , Henric did not say, though in the privacy of his own thoughts he could see the truth for what it was. He had grown immeasurably fond of the enigmatic youth, for so brief an acquaintance. He desired him in every way possible between the earth and the twin suns.

“And my affection,” said Tom, chilling Henric to the bone. “I leave you with my affection. I must away. Forgive me, and forget me not, but let me linger in your mind’s eye. I was a fool to approach you: If I am dear to you, forgive me but forget me not. I must away.”

Little did he know that Tom the Fool had a secret as big as the sky, and that in a matter of hours, Henric’s heart would be racing for a completely different reason than affection or desire.

***

The Tourney passed Henric by as if through a blur. The review, with all its bombastic huffing and puffing of the chest, the shouting war cries to the high heavens brought back nothing but the clamour of war locked away in his mind. All knights paraded, shouting their war cries, as did he, but it was as though his body was vacated of heart, mind and spirit one and all. He felt a shallow husk of himself, and perhaps that’s what carried him through the main event. 

The charge.

Henric fought like a man possessed, torn between his duties to his household, and the sheer stupidity of  _ emotion _ . How could one feel so struck down in the midst of life by a single melancholy eye? By the morose tone of voice of someone who was a veritable stranger, and a trickster, held back by some unspoken tether what compel him to play games?

Madness, thought Henric, here is your match.

The charge took its course, and ended late in the day. Far away from the field itself, the Royal Family were watching, making judgment of their own. 

Then, come the end of the day, Henric found himself the subject of an awakening. The royal family came out to the field, and the knights were to be given their audience before the crowning of Champion, just like Gawain had promised.

The King was an imposing creature, not only for his stature, but his piercing eyes that seemed to know everything. For a Mad King, he looked as sane as any King or courtier Henric had set eyes upon or took orders from, but he knew too well that looks were deceptive - especially as concerned elves born in Wintertime.

Beside him was his constant counsel, Amanda, who was said to know all there ever was or would ever be, and that she could weave the very fabrics of life as pleased her. At his left side, his brother, Gawain.

Then came his children: his firstborn son and favourite, Marcus, born in Autumn, and bearing all the colours of the season, and the earth and the skies and the seas trapped in the irises of his eyes; then his daughters, Chlöe, Clotilde and Clara, beautiful as proclaimed, but no doubt fierce behind that perfect composure, far more defiant than apprehensive; and last of all his youngest, the twin sons: very nearly as tall as their father, their countenance carefully neutral in the face of proceedings (two peas in a pod at a glance, but said to be like chalk and cheese in the midst of life). 

Henric could scarcely draw breath, for realizing the youth with whom he had enjoyed such flowing conversation was one of the King’s twin sons. What to do? Did his mind play tricks on him? Had he gone mad, after all, to imagine that face, that  _ wit _ , to boot? Without the shadows of the hooded cloak it was all too apparent: the complexion, the angles of his face, the fine features, and  _ the ears _ . ‘Twas not Conchobhar with whom he had formed such perplexing a link, Henric realized now (for Conchobhar was known for his father’s eyes, pale as winter) - but the older of the two, brown eyed  _ Conor _ .

It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was speaking to a prince, whose name was as commonplace as any of the royal children’s names since their birth. A lord, he had surmised, or someone of noble bloodline twice removed, but not a prince.

Henric’s heart raced like a stallion in his chest, fear and anger waging a private war where no one could see. He felt his face flush, blood boiling, not with shame nor fear of having been tricked, but for a fate far worse than that: what if their accord was genuine in all ways bar  _ Conchobhar’s _ taken names and epithet? Their eyes met, but briefly for how soon the self-professed Fool turned his eyes away.  _ There  _ lay shame.  _ There  _ lay fear, in those warm brown eyes.

The audience as such was a brief affair. His Imperial Majesty looked them over with a critical eye, discussing them openly with his counsel, as were they cattle at market, or so many pounds of flesh. Henric imagined they stood on common ground with the royal offspring, in that regard. They were tokens one and all, to be used as the King saw fit.

All the titled knights were greeted as per their standing, and then the King was to name his Champion.

Henric could feel the foul breath of the Fates move through him, for in the next moment the King disregarded his Herald’s notes and set the world, as Henric knew it, on fire. The King’s counsel was a Seer, after all, and between the two there was no telling how much they knew.

“We have but one name in mind for Champion,” said the King. “Lord Henric, son of Anders, knighted steward of the Hinterlands, step forward.”

Henric did as directed, and felt all eyes at his back, digging in.

“We fear Sir Henric is reluctant to take a bride. Our daughters do not please you?”

Henric’s heart sank through his body. His lips went dry, for he knew that now more than ever he would need to weigh his words. No doubt the King knew of his dalliance with the prince, innocent (innocent enough) and brief though it was.

“Your Highness. Your Impervious Majesty is not wrong. I am reluctant, but not through any fault or perceived flaw of your daughters. I came to showcase my skills, so as to survive the Winter by my winnings, not to impose myself on one of the princesses.”

“Ah,” said the Elven King, and levelled Henric with a knowing gaze that travelled the length of his body. “And showcase them you  _ have _ . Conor? Did you enjoy your little game this past week?”

Henric dared not look away from the King’s freezing gaze, but the faint stuttering reply told him all he needed to know. It was not a game, not where it mattered.

“Yes, father.”

“And you’ll not run off on one of your fool’s errands again?”

“Yes, father.”

Satisfied, for all appearances, the King looked to his brother with a fresh grin. “We have a different game in mind. We shall have a Trial. Should Sir Henric pass it, he shall have the hand of one of my daughters, to do with as he please, and the same of my son, Conor, as well as all the riches needed to survive the Winter.”

The spectators went up in a roaring murmur for the thousands gathered around and on the field. Everyone wondered what this Trial may be, but Henric wished with fervor to wake from a dream, to find he had slept through the day and someone else was crowned Champion. Elves born in Winter were said to be especially ferocious, maleficent for no reason apparent other than to themselves. In the case of the Mad King, this could not have been more truthful.

He bid his eldest daughter step forward, the radiant Chlöe, and spoke of her as a rosebud in spring, that would never wilt or fade. He bid his son to do the same, and likened him to a frozen lake: unknown depths below, and limitless skies above. He said to tread carefully, and choose between them who lives and who dies, or forfeit his own life.

Henric’s very soul rebelled at the thought of taking the life of an innocent; and for  _ a father _ to speak so easily of the death of his child - as if they didn’t matter to him, but were mere trinkets to be toyed with. His gaze went from the princess to the prince, both equally appalled, equally stoic in the face of such a Trial.

“Kill them?” Henric blurted out, short of breath for the fire burning in his chest. “I can’t kill someone on Your behest! This is madness!”

The crowd gasped in collective shock, to hear a Knight,  _ anyone _ speak out of turn, speak against the King.

“You’ve done it before,” noted Gawain, smugness oozing out of his every pore. “Your efforts in the Crusades did not go unnoticed, Sir Henric.”

The Mad King took out a knife from the folds of his long robes, and presented it to his Champion. “Kill one, to prove your worth to the other. Kill both if you cannot decide. Or...better yet: carve out your heart, and gift it to your beloved.”

Silence fell all across the field. Ritual suicide was something told of only in legends and myth as ancient custom. To draw blood for the King was commonplace, but even if a Trial often came with a deadly outcome, it was never the  _ goal _ thereof.

To kill, or kill oneself?

Henric’s heart beat a tattoo in his chest, felt all the way up to his temples. He stepped forward, hand reaching for the knife. “My beloved holds my heart in the palm of his hand already. This is only a formality.”

And just as his fingers clasped the handle, something perfectly unheard of took place. Conor shot forward with an outcry, placing himself between the knight and his father. An elf’s love is fierce and unrelenting, as Henric was about to find out.

“Take my heart in his stead! Take it, lock it away in the highest tower of the castle, and I shall always be bound to you. That  _ is _ what you want, father, is it not? To keep us forever leashed, bound by your will?”

Their eyes waged war, neither one blinking for what felt like an age. The King smiled, the perfect image of the magnanimous ruler, and said, “We would not dream of denying you your free will. You offer your heart as sacrifice, to let Sir Henric forfeit the Trial? Very well. Bring us a chest.”

Panic ruled supreme in the tormented landscape of Henric’s heart, but so appalled was he that he felt numb. He could scarcely move an inch, let alone draw breath. Elves and their magic aside, he could not abide by this - but it was over before he had his wits about him. Conor cut the heart out of his chest, placed it in the box along with the knife, to bind it, and sagged to the muddied ground.

“Tom!” Henric went to his knees, cradling the prince to his chest. “Conor--! You  _ fool _ , I did not ask for this, I wanted none of it,  _ please-- _ !”

Amanda conjured one of her spells over the gilded chest, and the heart, and the knife, and in thinking he was dead, Henric rocked his love to and fro, awash with grief, and kissed his forehead, and the tip of his ear, and his temple.

But he had misremembered one crucial thing… That Tom was not Tom, nor was he human, and elves are their own sort of magic. “Hush now, beloved,” said Conor. “Let us go home.”

The spectators cheered, and the Champion was crowned with a wreath of flowers and leafy sprigs, and all across the land the news spread of the King’s Trial, and his son’s mad gamble, and of the knight who would rather die than raise his weapon against an innocent.

And so it was, that an elf gave his heart to save the human he loved, and got one in return; a broken man left his home and came back restored to his former self; and a princess found freedom in what would have been her prison.

And what became of the prince’s heart? Well. That is another story, better told at another time.

~The End~


End file.
